


Waltstone Abbey

by jibjaneen



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Comedy, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Injury, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Period Typical Attitudes, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24496615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jibjaneen/pseuds/jibjaneen
Summary: The year is 1917. At Waltstone Abbey, a convalescence home in northern Scotland, a rowdy group of soldiers has decided the war sucks and the government is to blame and really that should all just stop. We follow Les Amis as they are busy not getting caught for high treason on account of plotting the murder of Lloyd George and the king while they’re at it, their convalescence from various war injuries, trying not to get send back to the front, and also more regular daily struggles for young men such as love, pleasure, friendship and hangovers.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Waltstone Abbey

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to my first les mis fic in ages. I blame my friends for this; y'all know who you are. A few disclaimers beforehand! 
> 
> While I am a historian, I am taking many liberties with what actually happened. I very much doubt lieutenants and privates convalesced (?) together at the same hospital, same for people from vastly different parts of the Empire. While I am trying to be as sensitive as I can to issues of colonialism etc., please do keep in mind this is not a critical essay but a fic that is largely just a sitcom. I also made Waltstone Abbey up completely and to admit, most of my knowledge about convalescing comes from Downton Abbey. If you spot any glaring inaccuracies or bad takes that are not the character's, do let me know. (I do not care about 'oh but that battle happened in august of 1916 and not september. this is world war one friends with les mis characters. Please do not take it as historical fact.) Additionally, do not expect a lot of ongoing plot; these are more vignettes into Les Amis' lives at Waltstone. 
> 
> With that said, please enjoy!

_January 1917_

Life at Waltstone Abbey, near Inverness, happens on schedule. At six a.m., the nurses on night shift are relieved of their duty and go down to the kitchens to have their dinner. The head nurse then wakes up the poor sod whose job it is to play the reveille at six thirty. At six thirty, around fifty soldiers are awoken to the sound of bagpipes. Some will groan and roll over, others will begrudgingly get up to start the day, and at least twice a week someone throws a boot at the lawn where the bagpiper is doing his duty. At seven, colonel Javert inspects the soldiers’ kits and beds, confiscates anything contraband and berates some soldiers for not having their buttons brushed or uniform in state of disarray. At seven twenty, breakfast is served. After breakfast, each soldier will have their own schedule to follow. Some will write letters to home, others will play cards or a game of football, while yet others have appointments with medical specialists. Lunch is served at twelve thirty exactly, after which visitors arrive between one and two. Between two and six, dinner time, it is generally more quiet around the Abbey as many soldiers choose this time to rest, go into town for a drink or an errand should they be able and allowed, or to work on more artistic endeavours under the tutelage of well-meaning aristocratic ladies. Curfew is at eight, and lights go out at nine. 

It is a cold January evening. The sun is just beginning to set, lighting up the small library through windows of stained glass. A small group of soldiers is gathered here, lounging on the ornate furniture. A heated debate is beginning to rise between a blonde soldier wearing two lieutenant stripes on his sleeves and a dark haired private, who is slouching on the velvet chaise lounge. A lance corporal and a sergeant are watching them on and occasionally dropping in on either side of the argument. In the corner, two privates, one with a cane resting against his remaining leg and the other sat in a wheelchair, are playing a game of chess that has been going on for weeks. 

“I move my knight to take your pawn,” the one with the cane says, and goes to do exactly that much to the other’s dismay. 

“You are not playing fair,” he complains, “Honestly, Joly, how do you expect me to focus with all that racket?” He motions broadly to where the argument has been halted by the lieutenant having a coughing fit. Joly turns around at the sound of heaving lungs, already halfway through pushing himself up with his cane when two nurses swarm in. One of them heads straight towards the lieutenant, while another parks an unfamiliar soldier in a wheelchair next to the sergeant. Joly still moves over, unable to help himself, but recognizing the nurses as nurse Fauchelevent and the head nurse, he knows his friend is in good hands. 

“Now, lieutenant Enjolras, what have we told you about working yourself up?” nurse Fauchelevent asks sternly, not fazed by the glare Enjolras sends her way as he struggles to regain his breathing. The private he’d been arguing with snorts, and Joly tries to warn his friend by giving him a subtle whack to the ankle with his cane but it is too late. Nurse Fauchelevent whips around to directly address him. 

“Don’t think I don’t know you’re party to this, private Grantaire,” she says sharply, and the grin mostly fades from the private’s face, “Honestly, how many times do we have to pull you two apart? What was the argument about this time? Ireland again?” Grantaire is about to open her mouth to correct her when Lesgle, Joly’s chess partner and close companion in life, speaks up before he can. 

“It was about curfew this time, actually, if you can believe it,” he says good naturedly, “Also- Joly, I move my bishop to take your knight on C5.” 

Well, shit. Not the move Joly had anticipated. 

“He might have you there,” lance corporal Courfeyrac speaks up from the couch, nodding sagely as he ignores nurse Fauchelevent continuing to give both Enjolras and Grantaire a dressing gown, “Say, did I hear someone else come into the room or has my hearing also failed me?” All eyes- excluding Courfeyrac’s own- turn to the side, where a soldier with gangly limbs and a freckled face is unabashedly staring at nurse Fauchelevent. It takes him until sergeant Combeferre clears his throat for him to look up with a startle. It catches nurse Fauchelevent’s attention too and she quickly turns around to introduce the new addition. 

“Oh- yes, this is lance corporal Pontmercy,” she says, “He arrived only a day ago, and I was hoping you would make him feel more welcome. Show him the ropes, give him a warm welcome.” It is glaringly obvious his is not an order, and nobody in the room has any heart to protest. Satisfied, nurse Fauchelevent and her colleague leave the room with one final warning glance at Enjolras. Joly decides to sit down in one of the arm chairs, next to Marius and quietly introduces himself.Lesgle, sensing the chess game has been abandoned for tonight, makes his way over.

“Good to meet you, lance corporal,” Lesgle says, “Allow me to introduce everyone. I am private Lesgle, although some call me private Legless now, on the account of me missing my leg.” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes with a loud groan. 

“Please come up with another joke,” he complains, and holds out his hand in the general direction of where Marius last made a noise. Combeferre gently pushes his arm the correct way. “Always nice to meet another lance corporal,” Courfeyrac says jovially, “The name’s Courfeyrac. Lost my eyesight because of a gas attack at Arras. Same one that injured lieutenant Enjolras overthere, and sergeant Combeferre here next to me. What’s wrong with you?” 

Lance corporal Pontmercy gingerly shakes Courfeyrac’s hand, a little unsure about what to do with all that information. He glances around the room, a feeling dawning on him not unlike that on the first day of school. He clears his throat. “Lance corporal Marius Pontmercy,” he says, trying to sound as pompous as he can, “I spent the last few months at the Red Cross Hospital in Belfast after a bomb blast did something to my back and left me unable to walk.” It’s quiet after a moment, before Courfeyrac speaks up again.

“So I still have the worst injury,” he declares, which causes Grantaire to fling a pillow at him. 

“Fuck off, it’s not a pity contest,” the private says, “Pontmercy, don’t let him talk him into giving you your portion of dessert we get on Sundays.” Marius just looks more confused. 

“No, it’s the rules, person with the worst injuries gets the newbie’s dessert,” Courfeyrac complains, waving Grantaire off, “Don’t listen to Grantaire, dear Pontmercy. He is just pissed because he doesn’t get to play, as he still refuses to tell anyone what his injury is.” 

“Which is perfectly fine,” Joly pipes up before another argument can erupt, “He is not obliged to share with us. Now, Marius, you said you were at a hospital in Belfast? Pardon me, but you do not sound Irish.” 

“I’m not,” Marius quickly pipes up, a flush on his face, “Only, it is where they had the best surgery available so my grandfather was rather insistent I be send there instead of a hospital nearer to his residence. I received the greatest care there, although I must admit, I was a little worried about going there for my treatment.” 

“Oh? Why is that?” Grantaire asks, a devious glint in his eyes, “Afraid of the irish nationalists?” Marius apparently does not sense his intent, but the rest of the room does as all eyes turn towards Enjolras when Marius responds with a nod. 

“Well, yes,” he says, “I was shocked and disgusted to hear of the whole ordeal at easter last year, ghastly business if you ask me, and treason at that. And, well, Belfast is not all that far away from Dublin and as we all know this so-called Republican Army is active there as well. You see, my grandfather serves in the house of lords, so I was nervous at what they might do to me in the event of a-” 

Enjolras had been listening intently to Marius for all of half a sentence, when his expression has turned from neutral to murderous. Somehow he manages to keep his voice level and calm as he asks: “Please, do enlighten us how the Easter Rebellion was in any way treason.” 

Marius falls quiet for a moment as he tries to find his words. Joly wishes he hadn’t moved from the chessboard. He could already predict where this was going. And indeed, as Marius stammers through an explanation of the wrongdoings of the Easter Rebels, Combeferre begins to lean forward with intent. 

“I just- they are part of our Empire, and as such, they should do their duty in fighting the real evil at hand, which is the Boche, not our King, who only has the best at heart for the Irish and the colonies,” Marius finishes, sounding rather proud of himself. 

But then he meets Combeferre’s eyes, who simply takes a deep breath and motions around the room with his good hand. Marius’ eyes widen slightly as he takes in Grantaire’s Irish Rifles insignia, Joly’s and Combeferre’s tan skin that betrays their Indian descent and Lesgle’s insignia that clearly designates him a Rhodesian member of the King’s Royal Rifle Corps. 

“The Empire is not a kind and benevolent mother who takes care of her children,” Combeferre says, “Your darling King has sacrificed his colonial soldiers more than his white English troops. The Empire treats us as if we are disposable. We dig your trenches, we are the first to go over, and yet, we are treated worse than fleas on rats by most of society. So please, tell me how the Irish should do their duty to a king and country that has shown none of the colonies, including Ireland, any kindness.” 

Marius hesitates at that. “If they would just listen,” he tries, “And stop resisting, they could be part of our glorious Empire. All the colonies should stand side by side, set aside whichever issue they might have with England, for there is a greater good. This war is what unites all of us, and what could be greater than to fight for England under her flag and bring her and the King glory?” 

Joly moves his hand to grip Bossuet’s remaining knee as the whole room holds their breath. Combeferre looks up slowly, mouth set in a thin but firm line. 

“To be free,” he simply says, and stands up to make his exit, Enjolras hot on his heels.

The room is silent after that. 

“Did I say something wrong?” Marius asks after a while, causing Courfeyrac to laugh loudly. 

“Did I say something wrong, he asks,” he gleefully says, “Oh, please tell me we’re keeping him?” 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed that first chapter! We will meet more of the gang later. This will update whenever I have time and brain space in between writing my essays and dissertation. If you have questions or comments do let me know! I'm not going to give too much away about the characters exact backstory for now, but trust me when I say I have ideas for these lads. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
